Date: Thu, 19 Jun 2014 16:46:43 -0700
From: Rich H <rlhsanclemente@gmail.com>
Subject: When the World Changed Part 22

When the World Changed Part 22

	Brady slept uneasily that night.  It was hard to find a position he
could be comfortable in for any extended period, for one thing.  His ribs
ached, and his asscheeks felt tender and angry from the punishment they'd
taken at Stud Douggie's hands.  He kept dreaming about Douggie holding him
down, beating him with the belt, then fucking him.  This latter part was
very nonspecific, since Brady of course had no idea what it was like to be
"sodomized," as Dr. Leeds had nervously termed it during the DC hearing.
In his imaginings, however, the deed was horrible - painful beyond
endurance, disgusting, smelling of shit, humiliating, degrading, and
eternally scarring to mind and body.  He woke sweaty a few times, more
certain each time than the last that he would never, never allow such a
thing to happen to him.

	David, by contrast, seemed to have gone out like a light.  Brady
didn't even hear the usual suppressed jerkoff that preceded his sleep.  He
had seemed drained of all energy by the time he got back to the room,
interested only in brushing his teeth and crawling into bed.  Brady
wondered if he should say something to him - consolation, ongratulations,
concern - but almost as quickly realized he had no idea what to say, or how
to broach any subject related to what had happened.  Silence was easier, so
they slept.

	David again rose well before the wakeup bell and took his morning
shower done alone.  Brady heard him go but stayed in bed, groggy and with
no desire to do anything.  It was Friday, but he felt as if whole years had
passed since he and Doug returned to campus from open weekend.  God, he
thought, what a week.

	His own shower that morning was the first chance most of his
hallmates had to see Brady's rib bruises.  They had by now turned various
shades of green and purple, and provided a great diversion.  Brady took the
teasing and curiosity in stride, quietly praying that no one would notice
the bruises across his ass and start commenting on them as well.  He did
his best to take his whole shower with his back to the wall.

	Though his bruises were pretty livid, Brady felt much better.  He
was able to move, laterally and up and down, without much real discomfort.
He strode back to the room happily, wondering if he might be able to play
by next week.

	Dean Storeman was seated on Brady's desk chair, in full jacket and
tie, when he entered.  Brady instinctively grabbed at the towel tucked
loosely about his waist.  Dean Storeman laughed a bit; David rolled his
eyes.  "Shall I step outside a moment to let you get dressed, Mr. Conover?"

	"Um, no, no sir, th - that's OK.  I just - I wasn't, you know -"

	"Expecting me to be here," Dean Storeman said with another thin
smile that creased the tight skin across his face alarmingly.  "I won't be
long.  I just wanted to tell you boys the results of the Committee's
discussions last night."

	David was avoiding eye contact, idly pulling at a sock without much
real effort at getting it on his foot.  Brady glanced at him for a moment,
but got no response.  "OK, sir.  Um, thank you.  I guess."

	"I'll keep it brief.  Douglas McShane is expelled, with a condition
that he never return to campus - not to visit friends, not to attend a play
or athletic contest, nothing.  He will be regarded as a trespasser, and
arrested, should he do so.  Ian McShane is suspended for the remainder of
the semester, but may re-apply to return for Winter Semester if he and his
mother choose to do so.  Mrs. McShane specifically asked me to convey her
deepest apologies and sorrow to you both for all that's happened."

	David was looking up at Storeman now, his eyes blazing.  "You mean
Ian can come back?  Here?  Again???  After - after all this shit -"

	"That's enough swearing, Mr. Tanner.  Ian was not a participant in
what happened to you, nor in what happened in his room to Mr. Conover -"

	"Not a participant???  He knew Goddam well what was happening, or
most of it anyway.  And what, did he just happen to break Brady's ribs the
same day?  My ass he wasn't a participant!"

	"I said that was enough, Mr. Tanner.  You might want to know that
your father thinks this decision is fair under the circumstances."

	"My father is a fucking bleeding hearted shrink who'll find
something nice and cuddly in every psycho asshole he meets.  He defends
Ian, he makes excuses for my mom -" He turned red, obviously not having
intended to say that last part aloud.  He cast his eyes back to his sock,
only the heaving of his shoulders giving hint to his emotions.  "This is
just sick."

	"Well," Dean Storeman answered crisply as he stood, "I'm sure I
understand your feelings, given what you've been through.  You should
probably talk to your father when he comes by after breakfast.  I'll excuse
you both from Work Program today, and first period as well if you need it."
He patted David's shoulder.  "It's really not as bad as all that, son.
You'll see."

	David's voice was emotionless.  "I'm sure I will, sir."

	David kept his cool for about five seconds after Dean Storeman left
the room.  He then let out a long and impossibly violent scream, and threw
one shoe on the floor hard enough for it to bounce up to waist level.  He
hurled the other at the window, but Brady made a diving catch to protect
the pane, losing the grip on his towel in the process and causing a nasty
jolt of pain to shoot through his side.  "Fuck!!!"  Davis kept repeating.
"Fuck!!!"  He buried his face in his pillow, muffling his screaming only
slightly.

	Brady sat on the edge of David's bed, a hand on his back.  "Come
on, Davey, it's OK.  They're gone, and Ian's never gonna want to come back
here.  Not now, not after what happened and what's come out.  They're gone,
Davey."

	David rolled over and grabbed Brady's wrist harder than Brady
thought him capable of.  "You fucking dumbass.  You think that?  You
actually think that???  You think Donald fucking McShane is gonna crawl off
and be beaten like that?  Didn't you see them last night?"

	Brady felt defensive, but a bit angry as well.  "I saw like a whole
family blow up in front of me.  Fuck Mr. McShane, didn't you see the mom?
Didn't you hear her?"

	"She's been a fucking marshmallow for all these years, and you're
trusting her and her little lace hankie pulled out of her little mink
stole?  You trust her??? Jesus."  He rolled back into his pillow.  "Just go
to breakfast, Conover.  Leave me alone, OK?"

	The harshness of David's voice took Brady aback.  "OK," he said
meekly, and dressed as fast as he could.  As he turned toward the door,
tying his tie, something inside him rebelled.  "No, Goddammit, I'm not
leaving you alone.  Not like this."  He threw his suit jacket on his bed
and sat down.  "What the fuck do you want, Davey?  Their blood?  They're
gone, and they won't be back."

	"They might be back.  Ian might, anyway."

	"Bullshit.  And if he does, so what?  If he does come back, you
think he'll be able to like pick on you and shit anymore?  Without Douggie
or anybody else to cover for him?"

	David sniffled loudly.  "You haven't been picked on by him like I
have."

	"Not 'cause he didn't try."  He sat back on David's bed.  "You won,
Davey.  You really want them to hang, take all this to the cops or
something.  There's probably a whole slew of laws they broke and shit.  Put
'em in jail if that's how bad you wanna fuck them up.".

	David took a deep breath, then rolled onto his back.  His face was
blotchy.  He stared crossly at Brady.  "Did you just say, 'slew'?  A 'slew'
of laws?"

	Brady's mouth worked for a moment.  "What, it - it's a perfectly
good word -"

	"You fuckin' hick."  David's arm pulled Brady down into an embrace.
And Brady followed, ignoring the new pain the movement caused him.  Maybe
I'm not so good yet after all, he thought.  David cried into the crook of
Brady's neck for a long minute.  Brady ignored the pain, holding David
tightly.  "You know," David whispered, "I couldn't sleep last night.  With
you not here, with me.  I was like shaking all night."

	Brady gulped.  "I - I'm sorry.  I didn't know.  I thought you were
out cold."

	"No.  Just laid there.  Stared at the ceiling a lot.  Couldn't
sleep a wink.  You were really restless."  David lay back, wiping his eyes,
and released Brady's neck, allowing Brady to sit up in a more comfortable
position.  David noticed the slight twinge on Brady's face as he moved.
"Sorry.  That hurt, huh?"

	"Nah, it's OK," Brady shrugged.  He wondered if it sounded
convincing.

	David smiled softly.  "Like hell."  He sat up slowly.  "I really
don't wanna face all these guys today, Bray.  I just wanna hide."

	Brady nodded.  "I know.  But look at how it's all working out.
You're the hero who stood up to Douggie and Ian, and now their asses are
gone.  You should be struttin', man!"

	David sighed and stood up, looking for his suit jacket.  "No," he
said.  "That's what they'd do."

	Brady's read on the situation seemed validated the moment they
opened the room door for the walk to breakfast.  A small group of boys was
waiting for them, and broke into cheers and applause.  Evan shook David's
hand vigorously (Brady noticed David wince slightly from the intensity of
Evan's grip).  People were clapping David on the back, congratulating him,
telling him what a great thing he'd done.  David was sheepish, red cheeked.
He glanced at Brady, who raised one eyebrow and grinned.  David shook his
head, cast his eyes to the floor, and led them on their way.

	Doug just smiled at Brady and gave a quiet nod.  Brady, cheeks
burning, tried not to grin as the group hurtled down the stairs.

	Breakfast was more of the same.  News of the McShanes' expulsion
(general rumor had it that both were expelled for good, which Brady decided
not to correct) had run through the entire School.  Apparently a small
moving truck was already pulled up behind Hornberger, where Douggie roomed,
to take his stuff out.  It was like a great holiday had arrived unexpected,
and it was nearly impossible to quiet the room for grace.

	Bill Fieldstone waited for Brady at the trophy cases after the meal
was over, leaning against the glass with his arms folded and a slight smile
on his face.  Brady glanced nervously at David, who was trying hard not to
engage with anyone, and stopped nest to Bill.  "Hey."

	"Hey yourself.  Quite a night last night, huh?"

	"Um, yeah."  Brady had the distinct feeling that Fieldstone knew
exactly what had happened in the DC hearing, word for word..  He was
conscious of the warning to keep things confidential.  "So I guess it's all
over the place now - what they decided and all."

	"Oh, hell, yeah," Bill replied dismissively.  "That's old news.
Nice move Tanner made with those pictures, though, wasn't it?  Were you in
on that?"

	Brady flushed.  "Bill, I - I'm really -"

	"You're not supposed o talk about what went on.  I know.  Forget
it.  It all seemed a little too clever and sort of devious for you,
anyway."  He smiled, clapping Brady on the back.  "How's the ribs doing?"

	"Uh, fine.  I'm OK."
   .
	"Good.  C'mon upstairs with me, OK?  I know you're off work period,
so we have a little time to hang out."

	Brady's cheeks reddened further.  "I dunno, Bill, I -"

	"Let's go," Bill said with an air of finality, and started for the
staircase.  After an uncomfortable moment, Brady followed.

	The deserted band room was chilly.  The windows weren't well
sealed, warped from age as they were, and with its door closed most of the
time even the heat rising from the rest of the building did little to
moderate things.  Brady almost saw his own breath as he slipped into the
room behind Bill.

	Fieldstone sat easily on the edge of a table after brushing the
dust off.  "So what's your recovery look like?  Not playing this week, of
course, but what about next week?  We have the Dunston weekend in November,
you know.  Gotta be up for that one."

	Brady decided to keep a slight, but visible, distance.  "I dunno
yet.  I'll play against Dunston, though.  They'd have to like tie me down
to stop me."

	Bill nodded.  "Got to end the season on a high note, right?"  Brady
nodded.  Bill stepped toward him, his hand running over Brady's side where
the bruises were.  "No bandages now?"

	Brady had so much blood rushing to so many parts of his body he
felt he would explode in all directions at any moment.  "I, uh, no, it's
not really comfortable, and it - it takes like forever to do it, and it's
hard to do by myself -" Bill's hand was on the side of his neck now "- and,
you know, . . . "  He tried to breathe normally.

	It was almost a relief when Bill kissed him.  He moved quickly into
Bill's arms, embracing him as well, and felt all the tension melt into a
rush of warmth and desire.  He was hard, as was Bill, and they ground
against each other as their tongues clashed sloppily.  Bill pulled back a
little, smiling, and brushed a wisp of Brady's hair off his forehead.  "I
like it when you make noise, Conover."

	Brady blinked.  "Noise?  What, do I -" but then Bill was kissing
him again, and as Brady was swept away again he heard himself whimpering
into Bill's mouth as they kissed, and the realization that he was doing so
only aroused him further.

	Bill's hand was unzipping Brady's fly.  It moved inside, grabbing
at him.  "You leak a lot, Conover," Bill whispered before plunging his
tongue into Brady's right ear.  Brady gasped and held on desperately as
Bill released his cock from his underwear and began to massage it with his
thumb.  Brady's hands clawed at Bill's back feebly.  He was out of control,
aroused, ashamed, desperate for release, dreading what it meant, begging
for it.

	"Fuck," Brady managed to groan once, as Bill squatted down and took
him into his mouth.

	It took Brady less than a minute to come, violently and loudly.  He
felt like part of his soul was blasting out of him, some deep essence that
would never be replaced.  His eyes stopped working, his vision as snowy
white as the room felt cold, while he shuddered again and again.

	Then it was over, and Bill was kissing him again, and Brady
realized that the sour taste on his tongue was from his own semen, that
Bill had taken and swallowed.  He recoiled instinctively, but at the same
time the scent was intoxicating.  He groaned and searched for any vestige
in Bill's mouth as his climax slowly eased.

	Bill grinned and leaned back against the table.  "OK, your turn,"
he said matter-of-factly, opening his pants.

	Brady froze.  What, am I supposed to like suck his dick?  Now?  I
don't even know how!  He looked at Bill, whose face was placid, smiling.
"You're gonna do great, Conover.  Go ahead."  His eyes hardened a bit.
"After all, you owe me, right?"

	Brady gulped in some air.  "I - I . . ."  He searched for something
to say, to do.  He realized Bill was right.  "Um, yeah.  I guess.  Owe
you."  He dropped, trembling, to one knee in front of Fieldstone, who had
his right hand inside his pants.  He suddenly felt sweaty.  When Brady got
his face to the level of Bill's crotch, Bill folded back his briefs and
flipped out his erection.  It was dark purplish, veined all over, with a
glistening drop of fluid on its tip.  It looked bigger, this close, than he
could have imagined - certainly bigger than Kenny's had looked when he had
held it in his hand over the previous spring and summer.  Brady jerked his
head back, away from it, instinctively.  Bill sighed.  "Do it, Conover, you
got me leaking already."

	Brady swallowed.  He wanted to back away, stand up, run down the
hall and the stairs, away from this and all it meant.  Why couldn't he
move, bent over like he was before Bill, staring at the erection only
inches from his now cottony mouth?  "Bill, um, I - I never -"

	"I know.  It's OK.  Just taste it first, OK?  Go slow.  It'll be
fine."  His voice was soft, and friendly, but there was an air of command
to it that Brady couldn't miss, even amid his whirl of fears and emotions.
This was a fatal step forward, he knew.  He was going to become a
cocksucker.  A pervert.  Why, even as he felt horrified by the prospect,
did he want it so badly?

	He put his hand on the shaft of Bill's cock and stroked it a bit.
Bill let out a long "Hmmmm," and his hips pushed slightly forward toward
Brady's face.  Brady took as deep a breath as he could (actually it was
more of a short inward gasp) and moved as well, extending his tongue
carefully and grazing the head of Bill's cock.  It didn't taste gross or
anything, not even the fluid on its tip, which was clear and bland.  That
encouraged him.  He licked the head some more, then the underside, as Bill
had done.  He simultaneously felt overwhelming shame and desperate desire.
The faint aroma, a mix of his own spittle and Bill's freshly washed crotch,
was dizzying.  He began to lick Bill more feverishly in spite of himself.
God, what am I doing?  Bill groaned. "See?  You know you love it.  Now
suck."  He put a hand on the back of Brady's head and pushed his hips
forward slowly, driving his penis into Brady's mouth.  Suck it good."

	It was a lot less awful than Brady had imagined.  Bill was careful,
at first anyway, not to push too far into Brady's mouth, letting Brady
control as much of what was happening as he could.  Brady's lips felt the
smoothness of the skin, the rubbery rigidity of the underlying tissue, the
faint pulse through the blood vessels.  His tongue ran over the ridge of
the glans and down beneath, where the skin, even erect, was slightly nubby
and very thin.  The faint musk again filled his nostrils.  He moaned and
licked at Bill greedily, heedless of his own abandon.  He sucked, his
cheeks collapsing inward as he moved up and down the shaft.  Bill gasped
and tightened his hand on Brady's head.  "Now swallow around it as it goes
in," he whispered shakily.  His cock pushed to the back of Brady's throat,
and Brady started to gag.  "Swallow it," Bill repeated.  Brady tried to,
but after a second or two felt his gorge rising in protest and moved to
pull back.  Bill held him firmly in place, pressing his abdomen against
Brady's face, his pubic hair scratchy against Brady's nose.  "Suck it deep,
Conover."  Brady struggled, gagged, swallowed, sucked air in through his
nose as best he could, felt his eyes water up.  Part of him wanted to puke,
part of him was ready to come again.  The position he was in made his ribs
start aching, but he had no idea how to adjust things.  It was, at that
moment, the least of his worries.

	Bill finally pulled back, taking his cock out of Brady's mouth for
a moment, and Brady gulped loudly.  Bill laughed.  "You'll get used to it."
He started to thrust in and out of Brady's mouth, not too far in, but
quickly.  Brady steadied himself by holding Bill's hips, his hands
unconsciously caressing back onto his asscheeks.  They were strong,
compact, and baby smooth.  He felt drawn, though against his conscious
will, to look up at Bill.  He wondered if he looked as ashamed as he felt.
Bill smiled down at him ruffled his hair a bit, and picked up his pace, his
eyes closing and his head rolling back.  He started to make soft whimpering
noises.  Brady started trying to take all of Bill into hos mouth, down hos
throat, ignoring the roiling of his stomach and the constant urge to gag.
All that mattered was the cock in his mouth, pistoning in and out, leaking
fluid to mix with his saliva, pulsing and thrusting and white hot.  Brady
realized he was making loud grunting animal noises as he sucked.  Brady
abruptly realized that Bill was going to come, and he panicked.  Do I want
to have this happen?  In my mouth?  He thought to ask Bill how close he
was, but before he could Bill thrust hard one more time, his hand again in
Brady's hair, groaned, and was there.  Brady felt a spattering against the
roof of his mouth, then another and another.  His tongue was suddenly awash
with thick acrid fluid.  He swallowed instinctively, than nearly gagged at
its taste and texture as it went down.  Bill kept coming, Brady kept
swallowing.  It seemed to last forever.

	Bill finally relaxed and leaned back against the table.  Brady
remained before him, on one knee, staring at the floor, blinking.  He
swallowed repeatedly, gasping, trying both to get it all out of his mouth
and to keep himself from vomiting.  He pondered the taste that he couldn't
get rid of, the few odd hairs he had rolling around someplace under his
tongue.  What he'd just done.  His nose was inexplicably runny.  He wiped
his face, which was damp with sweat and snot and tears.  He didn't feel
like he'd been crying, so why was he like this?  He didn't want Bill to
think he was crying.

	He was also desperately hard again.

	Bill's hands in his armpits pulled him back to his feet, and then
they were kissing again.  Brady fell into Bill with a feeling of relief
that it was over, and a sudden burst of affection he'd never felt before.
The kiss lasted a long time.  "First blowjob," Bill said with a glint in
his eye, and kissed him again.  "First of many."  Brady was kissing him
back but hesitantly now.  His rational brain was reasserting itself, and he
wasn't at all sure he was happy with what he had just experienced.

	"Relax, Conover," Bill said, brushing Brady's hair back into place
and caressing his cheek.  "It's OK.  That was great.  And you liked it too,
right?"

	Brady didn't want to look into his eyes but couldn't keep himself
from doing so.  It was like looking up at Bill while he was sucking - the
same sense of subservience, or of being somehow conquered.  He wondered if
he'd ever be able to look at Bill normally again.  "I guess," he croaked.

	Bill laughed.  "I knew it."  He zipped himself back up, gesturing
to Brady to do the same.  Brady felt the chill of the room again, and
shivered.  What had he just done?  He thought of Doug, and the remorse
almost made him throw up again.  God, I'm disgusting, I don't deserve him.
This is what I I do what I am, now - sneaky cocksucking in dirty unused
rooms where I can hide myself.  He belched loudly, turning away for a
moment, and Bill laughed aloud as he started for the door.

	Fieldstone was almost out of the room when Brady called to him.
"Bill, I - I don't know if I want to do this again."

	Bill turned and looked at him appraisingly.  "Up to you, Conover."
He stepped back towards Brady.  "Look, I like you.  I really do.  And I've
covered for you - with Storeman, for Tanner, lots of little things you
probably got no clue about.  Now, part of that's kind of my job - we're
Bevansmen, and all that, we stick up for each other."

	"But you wanted me to suck your dick too," Brady snapped.  He was
feeling a bit used, and angry, and scared for reasons he couldn't quite
define.  "You had, like, a price, for all of it.  You didn't do it because
you, you liked me, or whatever.  You like planned for all this."

	Fieldstone grinned.  "Not at first.  It sort of developed.  Not
that you ever showed anything to tell me you didn't like it.  Hey, you did
really good, don't knock it."  His eyes wandered a moment as he thought
through his next statement.  "Let's say that I hoped you'd suck my dick,
OK?  It's not like I forced you, did I?"  Brady shook his head, he felt
ashamed at having suggested that, and at the fact that he hadn't been
forced.  He had done it all too willingly.  "I like you, like I said, and,
well, you're good looking and all that sort of girly stuff that I don't
much want to go into."  Brady was relieved that Bill wasn't going to go
into that as well.

	"I mean, this was kinda, well, . . .  queer.  You know?"

	Bill shrugged.  "I dunno.  Just horny.  Young stallions, got to get
relief someplace."  He grinned again.  "You're more queer than I am, that's
for sure."

	Brady turned deep red and dropped his head.  He was caught.  There
had to be something to say, but nothing came to mind.  After a few painful
seconds he managed to whisper, "That's not true."

	"Yeah?  You liked it too much, Conover.  All of it.  And I see how
you are with Tanner -"

	"Davey - he's not - he's like my brother or something -"

	"Yeah, right.  I know enough about him, and I see how you guys get
along.  Don't go tellin' me there's not some fun going on after lights
out."

	Brady's face was burning.  "There's not, OK?  Nothing.  Th-that's
just bullshit.  I mean Jesus, Bill . . ."

	Bill regarded him for a long moment.  "OK, maybe," he said, "but
there's more going on than just this with you.  I can tell."

	Brady moved to the door.  "I really don't wanna talk about this
stuff, OK?  It - it's just too weird."

	Fieldstone snorted.  "Weird my ass.  Handle it Brady, it's no big
deal."

	Brady turned back to him.  "This isn't a big deal?  What - what we
just did?"

	"Not unless you make it one."  Bill patted his cheek and strode
down the hall.  "Take the other stairway.  Wait about five."

	The chill of the room closed in on Brady, as he stood waiting for
the time to pass.  He felt clammy, and began to shiver.  Oh God, what did I
just do/?  He saw a waste basket over in a corner, retrieved it, and spat
into it several times, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.  Then he
lost all control, dropped to his knees and vomited for several minutes, the
bile and his breakfast mixed with Bill's semen.  He gasped, shuddering, his
ribs throbbing from the exertion.  As he finally caught his breath, wiping
his nose and eyes, he tried not to contemplate his situation, to push all
the fear and horror and guilt and desire down into some deep box and close
it tightly.  To leave it all at the bottom of some deep and murky sea,
never to be recovered.  He'd done that with emotions all his life - worries
about his mother's drinking, pain over his father's death, shame over his
brothers' constant scolding him not to talk with his hands or in such a
tone of voice.  His unarticulated fears of what he was or might become, now
made all too real.  It was second nature to him to do so, to hide it and
wall it away.  Or it should have been.  Why was it so hard this time?

	He wondered idly if he could just leave the waste basket.  After
all, nobody comes up here, right?  It's blocked off and all.  Carrying it
down with him to wash out didn't seem wise - that would draw attention.  He
found some odd pieces of paper - some faded sheet music, a newspaper from
1962, some mimeographed review pages from a German class - and stuffed them
into the waste basket.  He straightened himself up as best he could,
spitting several more times onto the wadded papers in the waste basket,
wiped his forehead, and slipped down the stairs shakily.  He felt guilty
about the waste basket, though he wasn't completely sure why.

	He trudged back to his room in a daze.  David was sitting at his
desk.  "Where'd you vanish to?"

	Brady stopped dead in his tracks.  "I, uh - I was - there was a, a
guy, and he like needed, you know, directions.  To get to Mueller.  And,
and so I, you know, I like showed him how to get there.  And I was talking
with a coupla guys, too.  On my way back, and all.  About the game against
Pembroke this weekend."  He wished he wouldn't blink so much when he lied.

	David regarded him for a moment, then turned back to his desk.
"Well, anyway, you missed my dad.  Mr. Moral Support, in the flesh.  He
wanted to see you before he left."

	Brady felt quietly relieved he hadn't been around - he had no
desire to delve any more into whatever David's father wanted to talk to him
about.  Especially right then.  "Sorry," he said quietly.

	"You're always fucking sorry.  Especially when you're bullshitting
me like that.  Just tell me what you did.  I mean it's not like you were
hiding someplace and blowing somebody."

	Brady tried to hide his shaking, but couldn't hide the blush.
"Jesus, David, that's just - just sick."

	David didn't turn back towards him, but just laughed.  "Yeah,
that's me.  Mr. Sicko, in the flesh."

	"What's eating you anyway?"

	Now David did turn to face him.  "What's 'eating me'?  Are you
joking?  I got fucking raped, remember?  And one of the assholes who did it
is coming back - you watch, he'll be back - and my dad is like all over me
with his psycho-bullshit about coping mechanisms and all this other crap,
and now I gotta see a shrink in Princeton -"

	"What?  You're seeing a shrink?  What for?"

	David made a face.  "To cope with my stress and trauma," he
answered in a mock clinical tone.  "Absolute fucking bullshit.  I gotta go
and talk about my dreams and my jerkoff fantasies and all that crap to some
oatmeal brained hack who probably gets off at night on all the shit people
tell him."  He turned back and put his head down on how crossed forearms.
"It just doesn't end.  It never ends."

	Brady wasn't even conscious of moving, but in a flash he had David
in his arms, and the small boy was sobbing against Brady's shirt. His chair
clattered to the floor unheeded. Brady pressed his face into David's dark
hair and started tearing up too.  He wondered why.

	After about two minutes, they separated.  David was shaking.  "I -
I'm the one who oughta say sorry, this time.  I - you didn't deserve that.
It's just +"

	"I know.  Relax.  It's OK."

	David looked up at him with glistening eyes.  "God you're like
fucking Superman or something.  You won't let it get to you, will you?"

	Brady tried a wry smile.  "I try.  Just, you know, deal with it
myself."

	David righted his chair and sat again.  "That's gonna get to you
sooner or later, farm boy.  Remember that.  Sooner or later, you're gonna
have to tell Taggart."

	Brady flashed with panic and anger.  "Tell him what?  That I'm a
queer faggot with a hard on for him?  Yeah, that's the ticket.  That'll
really help.  Once he finishes rearranging my face he'll transfer to some
school in East Bumfuck and make sure I never see him again.  And that's
only if he doesn't tell Storeman and Leeds on his way out so they kick my
ass out too and I'm back in Cullingstown as the big failure.  That's a
great idea, Davey."

	"You think he doesn't know already?"

	Brady couldn't breathe for several seconds, no matter how hard he
tried.  The idea that Doug might already be on to him was so horrifying, so
shattering, that he felt as if his body had disconnected itself from his
brain entirely.  He watched himself shudder as if from the outside, his
eyes blank, his Adam's apple bobbling, his mouth working feebly to produce
some sound.  That feeling scared himmore than the question about Doug,
though, so he struggled to regain control of himself.

	When his eyes refocused at last, it was David who was holding him
this time, a hand on each of his shoulders.  "Bray?  You OK, man?"

	Brady felt vaguely behind himself and sat on his bed.  "Yeah,
fine," he murmured, trying to breathe normally.  "That - that was really a
bullshit thing to say, you know."

	David shorted.  "What, that he might know?  You really think you're
that good at hiding things, Conover?  I got news for you - you're not.  And
I don't think you realize how Taggart looks at you sometimes, or how he
acts when you guys are hanging out.  You guys are like two puzzle pieces
that fit just right together.  You're just circling each other, and neither
one of you has the balls to do anything or say anything, and you're both
miserable over it."  He sat back at his desk again.  "Frankly, it's getting
on my nerves."

	The idea that Doug might also have some feeling for him, other than
as a friend, was so intoxicating that for a moment Brady felt like
screaming for joy.  But no, that was bullshit, that could never happen.
Never think stuff like that.  He pulled that emotion away, shoved it into a
box, and forced it to sink.  Fieldstone's comments about David popped back
into Brady's mind.  He decided to broach the subject, carefully.  "Um, you
know, some people might say stuff like that about - about, you know, you
and me, too."

	David turned to face him.  "You think?  Who?  Does that bother
you?"

	"No!  I mean, well, it's, you know, bullshit, so yeah in that
sense.  It bugs me that way.  B - but it's not like -"

	"Is somebody giving you shit about me?  Fieldstone?"

	Brady flushed.  "No, God, no, he - he's not, I - I just -" How did
he know to guess Fieldstone?

	"Don't trust him, Conover.  Believe me on that, OK?  And besides,'
he added, his manner softening, "you really can relax, OK?  I'm not boning
up for you.  I could, that's for damn sure, but I'm not.  I know where
you're looking.  Just don't start with the
I-don't-wanna-room-with-the-faggot act on me, OK?"

	Brady took a deep breath.  "No, I – I'm not saying that, at all.
I'm not worried about that crap."  He paused.  "Though, you know we did
sleep together and all."
	David smiled.  "Yeah."  He turned back to his desk, but didn't seem
too focused on the open book that lay there.  "That - that was, you know,
nice.  Maybe we'll do it again, sometime."  He sighed.  "But it was, um,
kind of an extreme situation, you know.  That night, and all.  I - I just,
you know, I needed to."  He looked back at Brady.  "That was OK, wasn't
it?"

	Brady had never seen David so vulnerable.  "Course it was," Brady
said quickly.  "I - I, well, I liked it, a lot.  It was safe.  I - I think,
um, we both needed that, that night.  To feel safe.  Know what I mean?"

	David's eyes dropped.  "Yeah," he sighed again.  "That's fer
fuckin' sure."  He stared at the floor for several seconds.  "So that's
gonna be one more 'repressed desire' I gotta go into with this shrink.  I
can't wait."

	Someone knocked at the door.  Brady opened it, and saw Doug with a
concerned look on his face.  "You guys OK?"  he asked, stepping in.

	"We're fine, Garretson, and yes you may come in," David said with
fake sarcasm.  "Suppose it's time to gear up, huh?  Second period'll be
going soon enough."

	Brady didn't get that.  "Davey, it's still like tem minutes to
first period.  We're excused from it., remember?"

	"Yeah, well, I got stuff to do anyway," David said crisply,
throwing on his suit jacket and hustling toward the door.  "Plus I think my
dad's still hovering around someplace.  I gottta get him away from Leeds
before he gets us all sent to counseling."

	Doug turned to Brady after David sped out of the room.  "That was
weird."

	"Yeah.  It - it was - well, David's kind of stressed, you know?"
He knew damn well why David had left, and that knowledge only fed his
rising panic and guilt.  He suddenly felt uncomfortable looking Doug in the
eye.  Did it show?  Were his feelings that obvious?  Was there dust on his
pants from where he'd knelt in the band room?  Did his breath smell like
come?  He found himself concentrating on the inside of his mouth,
frightened there would be some random hair left How could he have done
that?  He'd betrayed Doug, even though he knew he could never be with Doug.
He was such garbage.  A cocksucking queer who thinks with his dick and
whores himself out to anybody who wants it.  How could he look Doug in the
eye, face him as an equal, deserve to be his friend, when he was so
loathsome?

	"Bray?"  Doug's hand was on his shoulder.  "Hey, you all right?"

	Brady shook his head.  Another box fell into the deep.  "Ya.  Fine.
I - I suppose - I oughta like go, too.  Can't miss Spanish, I'm already
fucked in that class."  He started for his desk.

	"Bray."  Doug's voice was soft, soothing.  But it also had the
slightest tremor.  He was hurt, and it showed.  "Man, you got to talk to
somebody.  David's not the only one who's stressed from what happened, you
know?  I mean maybe David's dad can -"

	"He already is," Brady said, still keeping his eyes resolutely
downcast.  "He like wants to 'help' me, and be like my shrink and stuff.  I
- it's weird."

	"You don't want that?"

	What Brady didn't want was this conversation.  "It's just - I mean
he's Davey's father and all, and - well I mean shit, nothing really that
bad happened to me -"

	"You fucking moron."  Doug had never sworn at him like that before.
It wasn't angry, or loud.  Just a flat declaration.  Brady looked, at last,
and saw a wry smile on Doug's face.  "You really think you can just do all
this shit on your own, don't you?"

	Brady blinked a couple of times to make sure his eyes were dry.
"No, I just . . .  well, I guess I do kind of try sometimes, huh?"

	Doug burst out laughing, and clapped Brady around the shoulder.
"Gotta love you, man.  The Great Stone Face."  He turned toward the door.
"I gotta jet for class.  But look, talk to me, OK?  We're friends, right?"

	Brady swallowed.  "Yes," he whispered.  "We are.  Friends."

	Doug smiled a daybreak smile that crushed Brady's heart.  "Then
talk to me, man.  About anything."

	Brady had never felt so alone.  "Right," he whispered.  "Sure.  I
will, I mean we will.  But, I guess not now, right?"  He managed a grin and
a shrug, and they both strode out to class.

	Doug moved as usual - bouncy, light on his feet, agile and
graceful.  Brady tried to keep up with him, weighted as he was.  The boxes
were in the deep, but they dragged on him mercilessly.